


More Than

by hostagesfic



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Insomnia, M/M, Multi, Resolution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 17:27:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hostagesfic/pseuds/hostagesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis is grateful one of them can sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Than

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for quasi-angst (with a resolved ending), implied depression and insomnia. Credit to Num and Fig City for the Urdu help! S has been messing with this for months and finally dragged it into the light of day. A snippet was originally posted on our [blog](http://hostagesfic.tumblr.com/post/35567800480/its-not-that-theres-more-than-you-can-say-its) in November.

_“It’s not that there’s more than you can say. It’s that there’s more than I can bear.” The Men With Guns, I Wrote This For You.[x](http://www.iwrotethisforyou.me/2010/11/men-with-guns.html)_

Bridge of nose to sternum, checkmate. Knuckles and long fingers tapping out across a fine dusting of sandy hair, knock knock, anybody home? Knock knock, who’s there; two popstars walk into a bar and- knock knock, where is the hollow bit, where is the secret panel, where is your-

Louis tugs at the dark curls in his face and licks his lips, taste-smells shampoo that is not his, not Harry’s, only theirs. The clock tips over into the a.m., and Harry’s fingers steeple on his chest, closing into a half-fist; he exhales. 

Louis is grateful one of them can sleep.

; 

Louis wonders, sometimes, how Zayn sleeps at night. 

He understands, more than any of them, how it happens in the day- Zayn can sleep anywhere, during daylight hours, curled up like a house cat or sprawled like a panther. Feline, Louis thinks, and it’s fond. 

But he’s not so sure about the night. He’s heard the shuffling of sheets and the hushed exhales, careful breathing from Zayn’s bunk; _one, two, three, four, aik, do, teen, chaar._

He asks, once, and Zayn says, “Danny,” and he asks twice and Zayn says, “Anthony,” the full name like he has to spell it out in his head, trying to make it sound like it makes sense, when it obviously doesn’t, even to him. 

Louis asks again and Zayn never says Perrie, and Louis wonders if she knows. 

Unlike a cat, Zayn doesn’t always land on his feet. 

(But Louis has seen how Zayn sleeps when Liam is curled up at his back, broad shoulders blocking out the noise and traffic lights and Zayn’s face is open like this as it never is, and Louis can almost see his dreams.

This, Louis doesn't ask about.)

;

Lately, Louis’ been waking up before dawn. He hasn’t told Harry- and Harry hasn’t said anything, so he _doesn’t_. One less thing to keep Harry awake, and Louis can bear the insomnia right along with the rest, for both of them. 

Instead of telling, he lies quietly and watches Harry’s chest rise and fall in the dim light of London’s foggy mornings, and counts the minutes until his sisters will be getting ready for school, lightyears away. 

He misses them like breathing; but again, if Harry knows this, he doesn’t mention it. Louis is grateful, and that’s better than sleep, anyway.

;

They buy new houses at a total of five mill between them, Harry’s close to Nick’s, Louis’ close to the bright lights he’s already so tired of. They buy new houses, and they live in hotels, because even if they can help each other decorate, it isn’t the same.

;

Danielle breaks up with Liam, breaks his heart and the door of their flat as she leaves, the knob that’s been dangling for weeks coming off in her hand, and when Louis comes by that afternoon, Liam is cradling it like a baby bird, fallen from its nest. 

Liam doesn’t say anything, but his eyes ask how Louis knew, and instead of the truth, instead of Dani texting him; _please check on him_ and _I’m sorry_ , Louis says, “Don’t I always know?”

He has to let Liam believe that some things are still certain.

;

Union J is formed and Louis feels a hot coal burning in his guts; it starts in his throat and works its way down, eating through bone and muscle and internal organs until it’s lodged in the pit of his belly. At first it’s fear: everything is uncertain, and maybe The World has just been waiting for a newer, brighter, shinier group of faces, different accents, without the stigma of eastern religion and visible ink and affairs with television personalities twice their age. At first it is fear, but after, when he’s watched enough footage to put names to faces, he knows it is far worse. 

“Don’t,” he says, when they finally meet (finally? They’ve only been a group for four weeks, and yet the world has been holding its breath for this moment for a lifetime, if you believe the internet). He’s got a hand tight on Jaymi’s forearm when they hug, and he has five seconds to say this, can already hear their handlers saying it's time to move on. “Don’t let them change you.” Later, he’ll read that Harry told George the same thing, and he’ll laugh, a little. 

Jaymi just bites his lip, and he opens his mouth and Louis is too afraid that he’ll say _but what if it’s too late_ , and he just hugs him again, pushes him away and turns to the next boy, because this is so much worse than fear.

Louis is _sorry_ for them.

;

In Sweden, a woman with dark hair and a thick accent says, “I’ve heard a rumor about you,” and Louis’ world stops.

But the world always keeps going, even if Louis thinks sometimes _he_ won’t, that his heart will just compress and he won’t be able to open his mouth, that someday he won’t be able to laugh these things off.

“I’ve heard a rumor about you,” and Louis says, “Me personally?” and it’s the goddamn goose, is all, but Louis knows that one day it won’t be.

;

Niall meets a girl, and she’s pretty and dark-haired and has a nice smile, studies drama and Louis likes her just fine. And Niall isn’t nervous about introducing her, curls his lips around her name like it doesn’t matter; but Louis hooks an arm over his shoulder, after, says, “How’s she put up with you, then, a lovely bird like that?” Niall smiles, pleased and little, and elbows Louis in the ribs, and Louis knows that they all need this, each other’s approval, each other full stop, like air. 

;

Taylor Swift writes a song and people say it’s about Harry; Louis writes a song and people say it’s about Eleanor, and Louis wants to scream it out to the rooftops, but nobody’s listening, anyway.

;

Louis gets his tattoos in quick succession, before he loses his nerve- in the span of two weeks he collects them like prizes, _you did good, you’ve kept your mouth shut, you’ve made it another month_ , one, two, three. 

And then he gets a fourth.

He’s not like Harry, who comes back each time with a lazy smile and watery eyes and traces his fingers over the fresh ink still in its cellophane wrapping, explains them in long, slow words. Symbolism, metaphor, memory. 

Harry drags his eyes over Louis’ tattoos with a slight frown, dips his thumb into the soft inside of Louis’ elbow, not understanding, and Louis doesn’t know how to explain.

Until the fourth, and when Harry looks up at him, big fingers wrapped around his aching wrist, the four small black marks, Louis says, “things I can’t.”

;

Danielle doesn’t take Liam back, not when they get back from Germany and he stands on her parents’ front step, not when they get back from the radio tour and he sends flowers, not when they get back from France and she drops by the flat to pick up a box of clothes.

Danielle doesn’t take Liam back, and Liam puts away their pictures in a box he asks Louis to keep, and Louis thinks that if Danielle can’t take Liam back, she could at least return all the parts of him that she still has.

But then he looks at Harry and he knows that isn’t how it works.

;

They sit down to write out notes for the new album’s liner art, and Louis puts pen to paper and writes _hi!,_ and he wonders if anyone is listening.

(He looks over at Zayn and he remembers _we ended up kissing,_ and thinks that it’s funny, how people will forget what they need to, in order to hear what they want. No matter what any of them really say.) 

;

Louis and Harry fight over something stupid. 

It’s a Saturday, and Nick has invited Harry over to watch Great British Bake-off on DVR. And then Harry stays for Nick to cook him dinner, even when he burns it, and Louis doesn’t return his texts.

Harry comes home at one a.m., and Louis pulls back the covers for him, ignores the scent of the expensive candles Nick burns obsessively and the smell of slightly burnt crust clinging to his skin. 

Harry mutters, “Sorry,” into the crook of Louis’ neck, and Louis shivers, lets it slide down his throat and settle in his stomach with the words he swallows. 

So it’s not really a fight, because Louis can’t bear for a single thing more to come between them.

;

Liam and Andy go clubbing in Paris, and Zayn loses his head, sobs into Louis’ shoulder in the shower. It takes both of them to calm him down, Harry at his back, large hands spread at his hips even as Zayn hits at Louis with his own little fists, so helpless that it makes Louis sick.

Zayn keeps saying _maine usey kho diya hai_ like it’s ripped out of him, and Louis wonders if he even knows what it means. 

Their clothes soak through and the water is hot, but they all have chill bumps. Louis’ heart is too heavy for his ribs to hold.

;

The next day, Zayn jokes about the rings beneath Liam’s eyes, the drunken five a.m. twitcams and pretty french girls, and doesn’t flinch when Liam plays with his mic in interviews. Everything is the same, and Louis wonders what it is like to love like that, with no place to hide, so devastatingly and so utterly and so, so silently.

Louis wonders if Zayn even knows that’s what this is.

;

Harry breaks in New York. Niall has taken a cab across the city to see Justin, and Zayn is in his room skyping Perrie, and Liam and Andy are- fuck knows where, Louis doesn’t want to think about it- 

Louis can’t think about it, can’t think about anything other than Harry, shut in the bathroom, hiccuping sobs insistent over the exhaust fan. Harry’d thought he’d gone out, but Louis had come back for his wallet, and god _dammit,_ Haz, _I can’t fix it if I don’t know what’s broken this time._

Harry opens the door looking meek and apologetic around the circles under his eyes, the stress paling his face out to puke white, and Louis holds him tightly against the words he wants to say, _so glad you didn’t do anything stupid, fuck it, fuck it, Harry don’t you ever leave me don’t you ever close the door on me again._

Harry assures him, after, that they were just tears, that it was just stress and the lonely that creeps in when he doesn’t get to see his mum and can’t have tea in their matching mugs of a morning. Louis isn’t sure if he believes this, but he believes Harry because if he can’t, then what?

;

Louis doesn’t break. He can’t.

;

So he lets Harry wander off to the park to find the place where they spent a morning kicking a ball around all those months ago. (He can’t, shouldn’t promise to go back with him someday, crisp New York morning air and his green eyes and a maybe that’s, to date, farther away than they ever expected- yet he _does,_ with kisses to his eyelids and still-damp lashes.)

He goes to Zayn with a handful of bottles from the minibar and his laptop, second best to running away on the day they’re painfully likely to be mobbed, if Liam’s anything to go by. 

Zayn curls into Louis’ side as soon as he sits down, his fingers playing with the lines of the stick figure like he can draw something new with them. “We can watch porn, or, like, buy somethin’ expensive or summat.” 

Louis nods, and Zayn burrows his face into the loose neck of his shirt. It’s not climbing to the top of an abandoned garage or hiding behind trash bins from fans, but it’s still as needed, it’s still an adventure, even if it’s just Louis’ feet pushing up against Zayn’s in their socks under the sheets.

;

When he gets back from the park, Harry shows Louis the text from Aimee, the address to someplace out of the city and hopefully safe of eyes that will recognize their silhouettes. And Louis shrugs, says, “Get dressed, Curly, nice but discreet. Car’ll be here at half eight.”

“Absolutely not,” Paul says, but it’s not like that’s ever stopped Louis.

“Andy’ll come with us,” he says, stamps his foot like a petulant child, and it’s not like he was ever going to listen to what Paul said, anyway.

They have to leave through a service exit at the basement, Andy already standing guard next to the black SUV parked near the dumpsters with a look that says this is a terrible idea in the interest of keeping his job, but he’s always understood, always been a good accomplice when they really needed it.

The windows are tinted, but Louis still waits a couple of blocks to scoot over to the middle seat and link their fingers together. Harry takes pictures on his phone as they cross Williamsburg bridge and Louis thinks he belongs in the big city with its lights and noise and sleeplessness, all reflected in his eyes.

“‘d you live here?” he asks, and isn’t sure if he wants the answer.

“Have you listened to Bright Eyes like I told you?” Harry counters, and Louis furrows his brows.

“What’s that have to do with anything?”

Harry shakes his head but digs around his jacket pocket for his earbuds, offers one to Louis like it’s the most logical thing, perpetually cryptic and full of grand gestures like he’s a walking indie film.

It makes sense, though, when he mouths the lines along to Louis, _I don’t care, I could go anywhere with you and I’d probably be happy._

;

Later, when Louis has to raise his hand, say, “I do!” in an interview to a question he’s _so_ tired of hearing, that he’s so tired of answering, that Harry is so tired of ignoring; later, Louis will think of this. He’ll think about Harry’s smile reflecting in the raindrop-strewn window panes of the rental car, the warmth of Harry’s eyes as they glance up at him from the menu. The tight grasp of Harry’s fingers on his thigh under the table, the press of his knee to Harry’s and the way Harry’s breath catches at the gesture. 

(Just in case he ever forgets, ever needs to remember, there’s a picture on his phone, snapped proof. Harry is marveling at the flower in his teacup, a pink sugar crystal from his stirrer at the corner of his mouth, and Louis felt something blooming, too, as he snapped the picture.)

;

The X Factor is winding up (or down, depending on your angle), and Louis and Harry are barely paying attention; shipped off the the U.S. again for some appearance, and just back in town, and. 

“That kid,” Harry says, “you know, that Jaymi kid, in Union J?”

Louis knows the one. 

They read the articles together and Harry shakes his head, ruffles out his hair. Messes with his phone, and Louis doesn’t have to look to know he’s texting Caroline, asking a favor. 

“‘d you wanna say anything?” he says, after a minute, when he’s got a new text pulled up to an unfamiliar number. 

Louis thinks a minute, and then realizes he doesn’t have to think at all. They may be very different people, he and Jaymi, Harry and Jaymi- One Direction and Union J- but this isn’t about that. This is about a kid who did something big. It’s his moment, his day.

“Tell him good job,” Louis says, and Harry does.

;

Madison Square Garden is a blur, and Louis wishes, dully, that he could remember things as more than their sum of lights and cameras and screaming, that he could put dates and times and words to the _feeling_ of each of these events. Instead, they list them off in interviews, bang bang bang. VMAs. Olympics. Performing for the Queen. Madison Square Garden. Just names, just tickmarks. 

(But when Harry squeezes his hand, says, _remember-,_ he does. Between them, in the dark, they can find the words. And that’s enough.)

;

Danielle comes to New York with Eleanor, but things are not the same.

It’s somewhere in the way that Zayn draws back the cautious attention he’s shown, the tenderness he gave away so freely when Liam needed something to cling to; smoothly rolled up and away like a red carpet at the end of awards. 

And it’s somewhere in the way that this time, Liam stares after him, looking for the touches when they’re gone, and the way Zayn notices; the way his eyes turn considering instead of sad or selfless for the first time in two years.

Louis doesn’t know what it means, but then, neither do they. 

;

Time skips. Harry moves his clothes into his house and lives out of bags, and Louis lets Eleanor wash his clothes for him rather than buy a new washer and dryer for his own new place. Harry collects tattoos and Louis calls his mum every night. They settle and they shift and sometimes it’s harder and sometimes it’s easier. 

Sometimes it simply is, and they have to be grateful for that.

;

Louis turns twenty-one in December and Harry throws him a birthday party two weeks early, so he can be there. The day of Louis’ birthday he’s over the Atlantic, flying back from Utah with a plaster on his chin and bruised ribs and a lot of camera flashes dancing behind his eyelids and a smile on his face because _he’s coming home._

Louis spends Christmas in London, brings his family down for the occasion and they stay at his big empty house for a couple days, fill it up with noise and leave it all the emptier when they leave. 

Harry goes to Holmes Chapel from the airport and then crashes at Nick’s.

;

But Boxing Day is the band’s, bowling and lunch and a tattoo shop and lazing on the couch at Zayn and Danny and Perrie’s. Zayn’s place is still a mess from Christmas, and Perrie’s abandoned them to leftovers and take-out to go shopping with her girls, but it’s still nice. Just to relax, simmer down for a bit. They don’t talk about how they’re leaving, so soon.

Danny comes in around dinner from his mum’s, bringing Zayn’s christmas gift from the Riachs (it’s a tin of homemade candies that even Zayn has trouble pronouncing; Louis makes Danny repeat it over and over again until they all get it mostly right) and his usual good mood. And a couple six-packs to share. 

And it feels like new years, even though it hasn’t quite arrived. 

A lot of their lives feel that way, after all.

With his arm pressed up against Harry’s, their knees knocking, Zayn and Danny curled into a single chair, talking in exaggerated accents and making Niall roll on the floor in laughter, with Liam scrubbing a hand through his hair and grinning at all of them: Louis doesn’t begrudge it. 

Not a single bit.

For the first time in ages, Louis sleeps through the night.

**Author's Note:**

> *["It was only a joke!”](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lw8bteoAgw1r86dkbo1_500.jpg)  
> **“maine usey kho diya hai"; “I’ve lost him.”


End file.
